Different
by ThexInvisiblexGirl
Summary: Another version of how Mark and Maureen came to be.


**A/N: I haven't posted anything on here for quite some time, let alone a Rent fic, but it's nice to be back, even for a little while. Reviews are most welcome, as always. The characters are sadly not mine.**

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**Different**

The entryway was like a black hole, swallowing him whole once he passed the security guard and walked into the club. It was a moment before his eyes adjusted. It was a different kind of darkness than the one outside, misty with smoke from lights and cigarettes. He cringed as the scent of the club engulfed him: alcohol fumes mixed with perfume and sweat. The exact reason he had avoided places like this for as long as he could help it. He couldn't help it this evening; the Well Hungarians were performing and he came to film them for his documentary. But as soon as they were off the stage and he got his footage, he would get the hell out of there.

The relatively small space seemed to contain much more people than it could hold and he squeezed between them, trying to make as little eye contact as possible, hoping no one would step on his feet or start a conversation or worse, a fight. He held on to his camera as if his life depended on it. Despite his concern, he might as well be invisible. No one gave him a second glance although he was sure he had stuck out like a sore thumb. His clothes, his glasses, the bottle of water he clutched in his other hand. Luckily, he had tied his bike some distance away.

He figured Roger was probably backstage, but didn't feel like making his way there. Pre-performance Roger had never been a pretty sight. Besides, the enormous guard who watched the hallway seemed to eat people like him for breakfast. Instead, he settled close to the stage and took out his camera, making sure everything worked as it should before the Well Hungarians' performance. He didn't like the band that was currently playing. Their music was too loud, the bass overtaking the lyrics. Their soloist was the scariest guy he had ever seen, with multiple piercings and tattoos on every bit of exposed skin. He seemed to be the only one who minded, though. The crowd seemed happy enough to listen and dance to the band's music.

His water bottle now empty, he contemplated going over to the bar to get a new one, but didn't want to leave his spot. It was the best spot he could possibly manage with a good view of the stage, but as far away from the speakers as possible. He knew he would never be able to get back there if he left. It was stifling hot inside the club, though, and he was parched. He could feel a trail of perspiration down his back, staining his tee shirt. Thank goodness he decided against wearing a jacket before he left home. It was probably much cooler backstage, despite the hype and adrenaline. The makeshift dressing room probably had air condition. Maybe he should have risked confronting Roger on the verge of a performance just for the –

As his gaze fell back on the stage, he realized the bands must have switched at some point of his contemplation. He was so deep in thought he didn't even hear the announcement. There wasn't a band onstage at the moment, but a girl. A very pretty girl, he realized, standing a little straighter. Her long brown hair was neither curly nor straight; her dark red dress clung to her curves like second skin. She had just finished a song he had never heard, being too lost in his head, and launched fearlessly into the next song on her set list without letting the applause and wolf whistles fade.

He couldn't understand how her voice hadn't pulled him out of his reverie sooner. It was so many things at once, clear and raspy, caressing and rough. It was bewitching. He raised his camera almost without realizing it. He couldn't _not_ film her; she was too good. She wasn't tall or overly imposing, but she commanded the stage so completely. The only other person he knew who owned a stage with such ease and charm was Roger. He couldn't get his eyes off her. There was something so sensual about the way she held the microphone, closed her eyes, swayed to the music. She was absolutely mesmerizing.

Her set list ended with a ballad, the only quiet number after nearly twenty minutes of rock. Her voice was raspy, but it only made the soft melody more intense. She seemed unfazed by the change of tone, as valiant as in the first moment he had noticed her, as if she believed she could sing anything, the phone book included. And after listening to her, he figured she probably could. While working on his documentary about artists in the Village, he had encountered many wannabe rockers and songwriters, but this girl, she was the real deal.

She was sitting cross legged on a high stool as her guitarist played his solo. As she joined him in vocals, she let her eyes wander across the audience until suddenly – his heart skipped a beat – her gaze fell on him.

Her half smile widened as she noticed the camera he still held. He felt his throat go dry. He tried to return her smile, but was distracted by the blush he could feel creeping up his face. By the time he had managed to twist his lips into something close to a smile, she was already looking away from him, smiling timidly yet seductively at the ogling eyes of more attractive men on the front row. He gazed at her, his heart now racing. For one crazy moment it felt as if there was something there, a connection –

The audience broke into loud applause which once again broke his concentration. When he got a grip and looked up the stage, it was already empty. She was gone. He stared at it baffled, wanting to kick himself for missing the end of her performance. It almost felt as if she had evaporated into thin air, as if it had never actually happened, as if she had never smiled at him. And maybe it hadn't. Maybe it was all in his head.

Only it wasn't, and he had his footage to prove it. He held his camera closer to his chest, making his way towards the bar. It almost felt as if he didn't have a choice. He was beginning to feel faint and not only from thirst. It felt as though the small space was closing in on him. He made it to the bar, crawled onto a stool and asked for a bottle of water.

"You okay there, cutie?" the bartender smiled at him, and he quickly dismissed her with a nod. She handed him a bottle and he uncorked it quickly and took one long gulp. He felt better already. It wasn't as crowded there as it was closer to the stage, and he pondered the pros and cons of staying there instead of making his way back. At least over here he had a seat, and a pretty decent view of the stage. Close-ups were overrated anyway. He could probably get some very good shots from over –

"Hi."

It was a moment before he even realized the greeting was meant for him. He turned back, blinked, and nearly fell off his stool. Because he couldn't figure out how this person, this girl, who completely enchanted him not fifteen minutes ago, was now addressing him. _Him_! Was someone trying to taunt him? Did Roger send her as some sort of joke? But the stage was still empty; Roger nowhere to be seen. Plus, as far as he knew, Roger had never met this girl in his life.

"You can speak, can't you?" she asked. He hadn't noticed her eyes before, but boy, had he noticed them now. They were deep brown and glinting, her forehead cringing with the slightest sign of concern. By some heroic effort, he snapped out of it and replied.

"S-sure I can speak," he squeaked. Damn it. He could feel blush creeping across his face. He cleared his throat and forced himself to meet her gaze. "I can speak," he said again, with slightly more confidence.

A smile broke across her face. "Good," she said. "Hi."

"Umm, hi?" he half said, half asked, still not sure this was real. Why would she bother to come over and speak to him? Surely a girl as gorgeous as her had better things to do, better people to hang out with. He could bet she had gained at least two dozen admirers from the front row alone.

"I saw you were filming me." She smiled sheepishly and that surprised him. He didn't think a girl like her could act coy.

"Y-yeah. I hope you didn't mind?" A question again, because it suddenly dawned on him; what if she came here to yell at him for filming her without her permission? That would explain a lot, wouldn't it? It made much more sense, too. Someone like her would never initiate a conversation with someone like him. These things just never happened.

"Mind? No, of course I didn't mind. I'm going to be an actress, you know," she said haughtily, and he laughed despite himself. She was so lively. "So did you enjoy the show?"

"Do you really think I'd spend all this hard earned film on your performance if I didn't?" He was stunned into silence by his own reply. Witty, he thought. He hoped. "I really liked your set list. Do you write your own songs?"

"Some of them. Some are my friends'."

He tried his best focusing on what she was saying instead of on that distracting strand of hair that fell right into her cleavage. Then she paused, and observed him more closely. He shrunk in his seat. Was she going to slap him now and storm off? He could barely blame her if she did.

"No offense, but you don't look like the kind of guy to spend his weekend at a place like this."

"None taken. I'm only here to support my friend. His band is on next, I think."

She didn't even acknowledge the stage, where people were putting on the Well Hungarians' gear. That sheepish smile was back. "I'm glad you came."

Wait... what? Ugh, just go with it, Cohen. "I am too."

"I'm Maureen Johnson, by the way."

"Mark. Cohen."

He took her outstretched hand, and hoped his wasn't overly damp with sweat. He pulled his hand away as soon as he could. Luckily she didn't seem offended. "So, Mark, how about buying me a drink?"

xxx

He bought her a drink, and then she bought him one to get even, but he didn't touch it, and she didn't comment on it. He was feeling lightheaded as it was, and didn't want to risk ruining what the hell was happening to him by having another beer.

And what was happening to him was incredible, magical, miraculous. They were speaking for probably twenty minutes straight now, with no stuttering on his side, no looks of disgust on hers, with no awkward pauses. She seemed genuinely interested in everything he had told her, and it egged him on. He had never been the confident one, let alone when communicating with girls were concerned. Maureen was different.

It was like the craziest film. A pretty girl addressing a nobody in a misty bar, and even the loud basses couldn't disrupt their conversation. Eyes locking, conversation flowing; a classic romantic comedy moment. The music rose to a crescendo, and then a voice rose above it, above the audience's roars.

"Thank you everyone, we were the Well Hungarians, good night!"

Shit. Did that mean –

"Oh no," he murmured.

Stopping mid sentence, Maureen threw him a look. "What's wrong?"

"That band that just finished its performance... I was supposed to film them for my documentary."

"Oh. Oops," she said, smiling crookedly. His insides melted. "Will they be very upset?"

"Their front man is my best friend, so he might be, yes."

"I can personally apologize if you think that will help."

"Hell no, he might snatch you away," he said before he could think better of it. She blinked, and he realized what he had done. "Shit, I just said that out loud, didn't I?"

She laughed softly, shaking her head. "That's okay. You're... different."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"Yes," she said, her lips curl into a brilliant smile. "I never thought I could talk to someone like you."

"That makes two of us, then," he said, not missing a beat. They shared a soft smile, followed by silence. Her eyes wandered across the club, and for a moment he feared he had said too much. But before he had managed to explain himself, to utter an apology, she turned to face him again.

"Hey look, an encore," she said. And indeed, Roger and his mates came back onstage. The crowd roared louder. The atmosphere in the small space was electric.

He knew what he had to do, but he had never been so reluctant to do so. That something other than filming would grab his attention was practically unheard of, but how could he leave her here? She might disappear by the time he returned.

As if sensing his hesitation, she shook her head. "Go, do your thing. I'll save you your seat."

"Okay," he said, still kind of uncertain. Did she mean that or was it a nice way to get rid of him now that she tired of him?

He didn't have time to linger though. He'd better film the encore at least, or he would have to explain it to Roger. That would be an incredibly difficult task; first he would have to explain this to himself.

xxx

The encore consisted of four songs and one a cappella. He thought he got some few good shots that would show he was actually there and paying attention. He could use some old footage of the band and edit it all together and Roger would never have to know. When it came to the band, all Roger cared about was sound quality; he wouldn't even notice any other discrepancies. Satisfied with this plan, and too distracted at the moment to recognize the improbability of it, he made his way back to the bar.

To his intense surprise, she was still sitting there, stirring a drink absentmindedly. Her face lit up when their eyes made contact. Her expression made him freeze with sudden terror. She waved at him, looking somewhat timid again. It was so confusing; she seemed like two different people, one who was seductive and confident onstage, and then there was this girl, the one who admittedly had nothing to do with guys like him and yet just smiled at him as if he was her lost best friend.

"They sound good," she enthused when he reclaimed his seat next to her.

"Yeah, they're decent," he replied nonchalantly, still trying to regain his composure. He couldn't believe she didn't try to make a run for it.

"So do you have any plans? Does the band have any post performance rituals? Do you meet them for late dinner or something?"

"I'm... not sure." The Well Hungarians had several post show rituals, in fact, ones he preferred not to take part in, or tell her about. Their favorite one was the late show at the Cat Scratch, but there was no way he was going to tell her that. "Why?"

"Because," she smiled sweetly, irresistibly, "I was wondering if you'd mind walking me home."

"Oh," he managed, momentarily taken aback by the invitation. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words. The silence stretched into awkwardness. She shifted in her seat, now unsure. It was unsettling.

"Unless you have somewhere to be?" she asked hesitantly.

"No! No, I don't have - I mean - sure, I'll walk you home."

"Excellent." He felt warm all over. She was so beautiful when she smiled.

xxx

It was two thirty six in the morning when he shut the door in his room. The digital clock on his bedside was looming violent red in the darkness, and he stared at it in shock. He couldn't believe it was so late. A smug smile curled on his lips. He didn't care how late it was. It was quite possibly the best night in his entire life. There was this familiar tingling at the edges of his fingers as he placed his camera on his dresser. He couldn't wait to sort through the footage in the morning.

"Mark?"

He nearly tripped over his own feet. Holding on to the dresser for support, he turned to find a very sleepy Roger on his doorway. "Hey."

Roger ran a hand through his bushy hair. "What time is it?"

"It's almost three."

"And you just came home?"

"Umm… yes."

This seemed to take Roger by surprise, even in his incredibly hazy state of mind. "Where the hell have you been? I thought I saw you at the club, but you were nowhere to be found when our gig was over."

"Yeah, no, I was there. I just… walked this girl home."

That got Roger's attention alright. "A girl? What girl?"

"Someone I met at the club."

Roger didn't respond. He reached over and pinched his arm, then hissed and let out a nasty curse.

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure I'm not still sleeping," he grunted. "You met a girl at the club? I thought your sort didn't hang out in places like this."

"No. No, she was… different."

He thought back of the last hour; the reluctance to say goodbye, of the kiss he had dared to place on her lips, the one she had returned, of the final promise for a date, an actual date, later that evening. But he couldn't tell Roger all that, not now. He wanted to keep it to himself for a little bit longer. But different would do. Different was possibly the best way to describe her, and whatever had started between them that fateful evening.


End file.
